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Good things that come of course, far less do please Than those which come by sweet contingencies.

Dead falls the cause if once the hand be mute; But let that speak, the client gets the suit.

If well thou hast begun, go on fore-right; It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.

Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood: Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her.

'Tis not the food, but the content That makes the table's merriment. Where trouble serves the board, we eat The platters there as soon as meat. A little pipkin with a bit Of mutton or of veal in it, Set on my table, trouble-free, More than a feast contenteth me.